


𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨 🁡 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑎𝑛 𝐻𝑜𝑢𝑟

by Adrenalineshots, sonshineandshowers, TheFibreWitch



Series: Domino 🁡 [30]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Digital Art, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extended Illness, FBI Bright, Gen, Grief, Hallucinations, Harassment, Health Emergency, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mental Health Issues, Metafiction, Murder Mystery, Nightmares, No Real Death, Surrealism, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, Video, a lot of really strange stuff that happens in altered states of consciousness, anxiousness, canon minor character death, major character death in an altered state of consciousness, reader-driven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:40:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26504533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalineshots/pseuds/Adrenalineshots, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFibreWitch/pseuds/TheFibreWitch
Summary: Selecting 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑎𝑛 𝐻𝑜𝑢𝑟 from the bookshelf, Malcolm travels through his own mind.Read this story at:https://www.thedominostory.com/#the-story-of-an-hourThis book is one part of the Domino series. If you have not yet read thePrefaceorIntroduction, please head there first.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Jackie Arroyo, Gil Arroyo/Jessica Whitly
Series: Domino 🁡 [30]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926451
Collections: Domino 🁡, Prodigal Son Big Bang 2020 - Saturday Posts





	𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨 🁡 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑎𝑛 𝐻𝑜𝑢𝑟

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/gifts), [MissScorp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/gifts), [ProcrastinatingSab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Story of an Hour](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/685366) by Kate Chopin. 



> This book is one part of the Domino series. If you have not yet read the [Preface](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64577434#workskin) or [Introduction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64588537#workskin), please head there first.
> 
> Betaed by the wonderful [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/), [MissScorp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/), and [ProcrastinatingSab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/).
> 
> Credit to the creators and their works that inspired and were referenced in this work:  
>  **— Inspiration:**[The Story of an Hour](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Story_of_an_Hour) \- Kate Chopin  
>  **— Cover Song:**[Sent Here for a Reason](https://youtu.be/6pYjBmby5GA) \- Hans Zimmer  
>  **— Assets:**[Stock Photo](https://www.pexels.com/photo/white-and-grey-vehicle-interior-1444109/), [Prodigal Son Still](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prodigal_Son_\(TV_series\))

[](https://www.thedominostory.com/images/full/the-story-of-an-hour.jpg) |   
---|---  
  
It is a rare day Malcolm gets home early enough to sit outside on the balcony before dark. He doesn’t have much of a view, only looking out over others’ balconies across the courtyard, but it isn’t an office and isn’t getting eaten alive by mosquitos in the moonlight. In the dusk with a glass of whiskey for his company, his feet kick up on another chair and he just breathes.

Quantico has been… a job and not much else. He’s out of practice with friends, doesn’t even know where to begin beyond the circle of his coworkers, so he keeps it simple and stays at work most days. Not that they give him much choice — the hours are frequently abysmal. He can’t even get a pet to keep him company, as he’s not home enough.

His phone buzzes, so he takes a preparatory sip of whiskey before checking the screen. When he sees the name listed, he smiles and answers, “Hey, Gil.” It’s a relief he doesn’t have to brace to deal with his mother or someone unhappy with him at work.

“Hi,” Gil’s voice comes through and then nothing.

“They let me home before midnight — can you believe that?” Malcolm jokes, running his index finger around the rim of the glass.

“That’s great,” Gil says, but the words lack any enthusiasm, his smile gone in the beamed transmission.

“What’s up?” Malcolm asks.

“You’re home?”

“Yeah.”

“Everything else is stable? You’re doing okay?” Gil’s words are slow, treating him with gentleness as if he might spook easily. Kid gloves for his city boy. Unnecessary.

“I’m fine, Gil — what’s going on?” Malcolm’s heart picks up, skyrocketing into his ears, his pulse giving a thumping undertone to the rest of the conversation.

“I need you to come home.”

Gil still hasn’t said his name, hasn’t joked or teased him about his days in the FBI. Even on days when things are down in New York, Gil always starts with a vibrance that’s contagious, even when he’s faking it. “What’s wrong?” Malcolm asks, trepidation filling his stomach better than any food.

“S-she’s dead, Malcolm. S-she’s — I need you to come home. _Please_.”

Gil took so much care to break the news to Malcolm, likely terrified of his response, but the spigot opens, tears suddenly gushing down Malcolm’s face. A sudden snap that the woman they had loved more than anyone else was gone.

They had seen it coming. Malcolm just didn’t expect it would happen before he could get back home again. “I’m s-so sorry. I’m coming, Gil,” he says, his voice a slobbery mess as he cries.

Malcolm doesn’t even pack a bag, only New York on his mind. He cries the whole way in the cab, giving the cabbie a show that perhaps his partner left him, he’s having a bad day, or his mood swings faster than a grade schooler shooting for the moon. Plummeting back to Earth when he exits the cab, he’s in a haze by the time he gets on the train. Staring out the windows, he searches for his second mother in silence, tracing shadows in the darkness.

Glimmers of passing signs proclaim _Henry’s_ , _Cinema_ , _Exit 46_. Lights illuminate empty parking lots, nary a patron as the clock ticks toward midnight. Visions of their family’s huddle, sharing words to get through anything together pattering in his ears, he realizes they’ve finally failed.

They lost one. _The_ one. Vivacious, headstrong, triumphant, nurse, caring wife, mother. As much as the thoughts might drive someone to cry again, he doesn’t, her pain in those last months unimaginable. After the struggle, it’s a blessing in many ways — she’s not suffering anymore.

They will have to learn to live for themselves. _Free, free, free_ , they’ll need to lean on each other to figure out what life post-Jackie looks like. How their family operates without its center, its captain directing their leaky ship through often tumultuous waters.

She’d even tried to prepare them for it. Writing him recipes for all of his favorites that she cooked, notes about how she helped him when he was struggling, and a listing of all of Gil’s doctors. Inspirational words that they should both smile, crude drawings of whatever caught her eye in the scenery that day, quotes written in the spare corners. Page after page in journals amassed that towered over his collection, even though he still kept notes as she’d taught him. Though she’d been bracing them for months, he’d never truly considered the day would come.

Did the burnt grass hold the secrets to her stuffed peppers, Gil’s grillwork giving them their signature charred skin? Did the early autumn air whooshing carry the same whispers she gave his ears when he panicked? Would the lilacs come up again in the Spring, calming him with only her scent? Who would be there to hold him and Gil when their days came crashing down?

The train stops with a jolt, his head rapping against the window. “Maintenance, a slight delay,” comes over the intercom, rattling so much he can barely discern the words. “We’ll be moving again in a few minutes.”

Would Jackie move with them? If Gil needs to downsize, get a smaller apartment, what would happen to their home? Her memory? Would it find them?

He and Gil sit at the kitchen table, staring at the empty chair where Jackie would sit. It lasts three days, no sleeping, no eating, just a murky blend of what is and isn’t sloshing between them on each breath. Malcolm’s breath whispers, _Do you see her?_ , and when Gil’s reaches his mouth, it whispers, _Do you see her?_ All reports are no.

Adolpho brings over an old suit from his mother’s house. Malcolm doesn’t even have to make it a secret request — his mother never goes near the Arroyo house anymore. She won’t even be at the wake or funeral. Folded papers go into Gil and Malcolm’s pockets, Jackie’s words bleeding through the looseleaf. Malcolm doesn’t ask what they say, only follows Gil’s lead when he slips the paper inside his breast pocket and gives it a pat.

When they run out of last minute things to fidget with, Gil picks up his keys. Neither one of them move, not ready to face a wake with a hundred people who loved the woman they love. Not ready to enter a world where they can prove that they can survive without her. It seems unfair to demonstrate that continuing on is possible so quickly.

A scratchy glide of a key enters the front door, and it opens, heels clicking into the entryway. “How are my two favorite guys?” Jackie asks, beaming at them. Her t-shirt and jeans are relaxed as if she’d just come home from the supermarket, asking them to help her put the groceries away.

Malcolm’s head cracks off the kitchen counter, a pool of blood growing around him, marring the tile. He wonders if they’ll find Malcolm in the grout years later, his emotions permeating whoever enters. Whether even in death, they’ll still see him.

Reports are unknown.

— ◌◯◌ —

Gil had learned enough on the job and from Jackie to know that hypertension and threat of respiratory arrest are not good. He'd seen with his own eyes that Bright's pupils were huge, and the paramedics are reporting that he isn't responding to stimulus. The skin at Bright's ankle is warm to the touch, the only place Gil can stay connected as they ride in the back of the ambulance to the hospital.

All of the signs look too much like a drug overdose. He's witnessed plenty in his years, but it's different seeing the same signs in his kid. His mind's conflicted — he's fairly certain the kid's not using, but between his medications and his mother's home remedies, he doesn't know what the kid might have taken. Whatever the combination is, it's life-threatening. The paramedics are working at a feverish pace that rivals Bright's skin.

His mind’s a little less clear as to what drug could be the culprit. It’s not an opioid because some of the kid’s symptoms aren’t consistent with what he’s seen before. The logical part of his mind responds _duh_ , while the emotional part wrestles with what he knows about the kid’s prescriptions. Jackie would be able to pinpoint possible causes very quickly — by himself, he’s useless. All he can do is hold onto the kid and pray those medically-trained will be able to help.

When they get to the hospital, the doors fly open, and Bright is whisked past him and into the emergency room faster than he can realize what's happening. He tries to follow, to keep pace with where they're going, but he's stopped by someone. A nurse maybe? A security guard? No, there are scrubs. A tech?

"Come with me," the person says and escorts him to a waiting room.

His legs move under a power he doesn't know he has. He winds up in a waiting room that looks just like any other hospital he's been in. Leaning his head into his hands, he wants to curl up, to forget the day has even happened and get a chance to do it over. His ring catches on his hair, and he remembers — he needs to call Jessica.

He needs to tell her Malcolm might die.

Malcolm.

His stomach clenches, and he thinks he might be sick all over the floor. _Bright_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Head back to the [Bookshelf](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64588570#workskin) to pick another book. :)


End file.
